


Lay on the Ivory

by ProwlingThunder



Series: The Everlasting List of Shenanigans [229]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gen, Musicians, Pianists, The Third Rail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: Overall, it was a much better survivor of the war than he was.
Series: The Everlasting List of Shenanigans [229]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/97235
Kudos: 2
Collections: The Sun in a Jar





	Lay on the Ivory

When Silas had been in school, one of the classes to pad his college courses had been musical in nature. Not because he had actually signed up for it, but because he'd had a free period, found the music room, and one of the teachers had overheard him trying to carefully work a mournful sound out of the Bosendorfer Imperial all the piano students were afraid to touch.

He didn't remember exactly how things had gone down after that. Music wasn't particularly useful for his military dream, and while it didn't hurt his major, it didn't help it, either.

He hadn't played it again after graduation. He didn't think his family had even known about it. He definitely didn't think about it, once Uncle Sam told him he could put on a uniform,  _ finally. _

Silas was thinking about it now, though.

There was a Baby Grand in the Third Rail, smaller than anything he'd ever touched. It was a beautiful glossy black, ivory keys showing only a little bit of wear, feet a little scuffed. He reached out, closed his eyes at the quiet chime, tried to pretend it hadn't coiled through the bar and made the few quiet patrons pay him attention.

Overall, it was a much better survivor of the war than he was.

...it had been a long time since he'd touched ivory, and it wasn't a line of keys he was familiar with at all. But he settled down on the bench anyway, set his fingers wherever they felt like going, plucked a few bars to check the tuning. He wasn't picky. He just had time to kill, and there was nothing on the radio or in the jukebox that was worth listening to.

"You play pretty good," someone murmured, between one cord and the next.

He didn't, really. But he supposed there was a sore lack of piano players in this world these days.


End file.
